The Sculptor

the very least an unwilling accomplice in his plan. But after all he had done for her, after he had specifically used her ex-husband for the body of his Virgin as a favor to her—that same man who had betrayed her, that same poopy-head who The Sculptor had followed for years, who he knew was having sexual relations behind the good doctor’s back—yes, Dr. Hildy could have at least held off on telling the FBI about his Pieta until it was in place.

The Sculptor blasted out six more reps on his bench, and when he returned the bar to the rack, it was as if his mind at once had cleared. And in a flash of insight, The Sculptor suddenly understood the brutal but simple reality that, if indeed it had been Dr. Hildy who had led the FBI to his Pieta, then there was a good chance that Dr. Hildy might do the same with his David. Hence, although it had never been part of his original plan, The Sculptor understood all at once that the best thing to do in order to guarantee a smooth exhibit of his David was to get rid of Dr. Catherine Hildebrant.

And much to his surprise, The Sculptor suddenly felt a lot better.

Chapter 38

“I want to go back to Providence,” said Cathy Hildebrant. She and Sam Markham stood before Burrell’s desk like a pair of high school delinquents in the principal’s office—contrite, fearful, yet defiant.

“I can’t allow it,” said Burrell. “That would be like throwing you to the wolves.”

“I don’t care. I can be more help to you working with Sam on the street.”

“But Cathy, you’ve been watching the television these last couple of weeks—been reading the papers and the news reports online. You know the press is looking for you, is dying to pick your bones.”

“I’m not worried about that. I’ll keep a low profile.”

“But with the murder of your ex, don’t you see that they all blame you? We can’t protect you from them anymore. It’s an entirely different situation now—they don’t want to just talk to you about The Michelangelo Killer, they want to get closer to him through you. I know you’ve been following the news. The press and the public are just waiting for The Sculptor’s next exhibit. They all know what it’s going to be—the goddamn statue of David. Christ, it’s only a matter of time before every young male with muscles in Rhode Island starts going into a panic, starts going into hiding.”

“I understand that but—”

“I can’t guarantee your safety down there, Cathy,” Burrell said, rising. “Hell, I shouldn’t even have you as a consultant on the case anymore.”

“She’ll be fine with me, Bill,” said Markham. “We can set her up in a room in my building—I’ll be personally responsible for her, twenty-four-seven.”

“Both of you were at the teleconference today, Sam. Both of you understand now what this guy is all about. We can tie him to at least nine murders, including Gabriel Banford and the two policemen. That’s at least nine. Who knows how many of Rachel’s missing prostitutes are his. Who knows how many more there are that we don’t know about—prostitutes, young men, women, children. He doesn’t hunt in one demographic, Sam. He chooses his victims according to some sick plan that parallels the artistic output of Michelangelo. I mean, Christ, what’s to say he won’t come after Cathy next?”

“I can’t stay in hiding all my life,” Cathy said.

“No, but you can goddamn well stay there a little longer.”

An awkward silence fell over the office as the SAC turned his back on them—staring absently out his window to the Boston skyline.

“I understand what you’ve been going through, Cathy. I understand that you’ve been cooped up with us for almost two weeks now. I know it must make you feel isolated, helpless, and a little stir crazy—being away from the people and the places you love. That’s to be expected. But at least there’s the buffer of distance between you and the killer; at least the press doesn’t know where you are. If you go back to Providence, if you start working the streets with Markham again, someone might spot you, might notify the press. And if the media finds out where you are, then The Sculptor might find out, too.” Burrell turned to face her. “Look, Cathy, if you can just hold out a little longer, if you can just sit tight until we get something solid—”

“You can’t hold me here against my will.”

“You’re right,” said Burrell. “But I can fire you from the case if you choose to leave protective custody. Is that what you want me to do?”

Both Cathy and Markham knew the SAC was bluffing, but it was the FBI agent who called him on it.

“If she goes, I go.”

Burrell looked at him incredulously.

“I mean it,” Markham said. “I’m done—I’m through with the Bureau for good. You can’t fire me, Bill, but I can quit. I can fly back to Quantico and hand in my resignation first thing in the morning.”

Bulldog’s cheeks flushed red.

“Leave us alone,” he said.

Cathy looked uncomfortably to Markham. He nodded, and she quietly left the room.

“Bill, I know what you’re going—”

“You don’t know shit,” Bulldog bellowed, his fists clenching. “You think you can scare me with ultimatums? You think I give a fuck if you resign?”

“Yes I do,” Markham said calmly. “I think you know how bad it would look if word got out that your obstinacy got in the way of this investigation. And I think you know how bad it would look if I let it be known how close we were to catching this guy, and that you of all people let him get away.”

“Close, my fucking ass—”

“I can catch this guy,” said Markham, leaning on the SAC’s desk. “But I can do it only with your full support and that means Cathy’s support, too. I can’t do it without her.”

The bulldog just stood there—fuming.

“It’s in her book, Bill. The answer is in her book. I know it. It was Cathy who got me close to him that night—Cathy who figured out it was the lighting, the key to the parallel between the environments that was so important for The Sculptor’s exhibition. Don’t you see, Bill? Together we can catch him. You just have to trust me on this.”

“I’m not an idiot, Markham. I know you two have been playing patty cake these last few weeks. And girlfriend or no girlfriend, I’m telling you now that if anything happens to her, you’re done. Meaning, I’ll see to it personally that you’re demoted to the fucking mail room. You understand me?”

“Yes, I do.”

Burrell turned his back to him—his eyes once again falling to the Boston skyline.

“We’ll set her up in your building for two weeks—change her hair color and give her contacts. At the end of those two weeks we’ll reassess the situation. Understand, however, that if at any time I decide it’s too risky—if the press finds out about her, if the location of the safe house is blown, whatever the fuck the reason—if I don’t like the way things are playing out and you two balk, then she’s out and you can do whatever the fuck you want.”

“I understand.”

“But let me be perfectly clear on this, Sam. No matter what happens, you are the one who’s responsible for her. You got me?”

“Yes. Thank you, Bill.”

“Now get the fuck out of my office.”

Chapter 39

The FBI safe house was the only one of its kind left in Rhode Island; it had been initially set up as a surveillance unit after the terrorist attacks of 9–11, and was located on the second and third floors of a commercial building in downtown Providence, directly across the street from the former law offices of a suspected Al-Qaeda sympathizer who was eventually prosecuted. Its original purpose now abandoned, the FBI had since re-outfitted the